


Living in the Twilight Zone

by DizzyDrea



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Major J. Matthew Hayes, MACO.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living in the Twilight Zone

**Author's Note:**

> This story lived on my hard drive for ages, literally. I've finally decided to let it out to play. 
> 
> Original notes: This isn't the first story I've written in the E2 'verse. I seemed to get stuck stuck there, for some reason. I find it to be ripe with possibilities, so I guess I'm trying to explore all of them. Also, that's no typo: I did give Hayes' first name as Matthew (borrowed from the ladies at the Warp 5 Complex), because nobody could figure out if he actually had a first name at the beginning. Now that we know (sort-of) that his name's Jeremiah, I've decided that it's actually Jeremiah Matthew Hayes, but he goes by Matt. /nods/
> 
> Spoilers (if that's even possible now): The Xindi story arc, specifically Season Three's E2
> 
> Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to Paramount, Gene Roddenberry, JJ Abrams, Bad Robot and a lot of other people who aren’t me. I am doing this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~o~

Personal Log, Major J. Matthew Hayes, September 30, 2037

I never quite understood the Fleeter habit of recording a personal log until now. It never seemed to me to be useful, but right now there doesn't seem to be anyone I can talk to, so… here goes…

I thought the Delphic Expanse was weird before we were thrown back in time, but now I think that was just the calm before the storm. I feel like I'm living in _The Twilight Zone_. Literally.

My Uncle Joe introduced me to the old flatvid show when I was twelve. After my dad died, he and I spent a lot of time together. One afternoon, he came over and loaded up a bunch of episodes. We sat there, eating popcorn and drinking sodas, and we watched a dozen of what he considered the best of the series.

I didn't get it at first, but as I watched, I began to understand the attraction. The stories were weird, that much was clear. But they were also strangely alluring. And since humanity had made contact with alien life forms, these shows seemed downright prescient.

There was one episode that stuck with me all these years. It was called _The Arrival_. It was about an airplane that arrived at its destination with no one aboard. The investigator looking into the mystery kept finding inconsistencies, things that just didn't add up, until he finally realized that the airplane simply wasn't there. It hadn't really happened. Except it did, seventeen years in the past. It was the one case the investigator couldn't solve, and you're left with the impression that his ghost has spent all this time trying to figure it out.

I find myself thinking about that story now, especially since we've been thrown back in time. Did my life really happen? If I haven't been born yet, do I really exist? I get a mother of a headache just trying to think about it, so I don't allow myself that luxury—or torture, I'm not sure which—very often.

Today, though, it's hard not to think about it. Today has been one of those days. One of those days that seems to happen with alarming frequency lately.

It started out benignly enough. I ran the MACOs through their morning PT as usual. We ran decks B through G today, like we do once a week, just to stay sharp. Then I showered and had breakfast with Ensign Lofton and Sergeant MacKenzie. We talked about some of the joint training we've been implementing among the Fleeters and the MACOs.

When Malcolm Reed died three months ago during a raid on one of the Spheres, Captain Archer put me in charge of the Armory. I made Lofton my second, since he knows the systems better than anyone else, save Lieutenant Reed himself. MacKenzie stayed as my second on the MACOs, but she took on a lot more responsibility as a result. She's been a lifesaver, in more ways than one.

So, we talked through some adjustments to the training schedule. We're cross-training the Armory staff on our weapons, and our guys on the Starfleet systems. It should have been done a long time ago, but Malcolm and I spent the better part of the last year fighting each other. He was suspicious of me and my team, mostly because he'd taken our assignment to Enterprise as a direct judgment against his ability to protect the ship. It wasn't, but I didn't do much to dispel that notion, either. We'd finally called a truce—buried the hatchet, as he'd called it—and had started working together to design this training program when he was killed.

I took it hard. We'd become friends, mostly because we were in the same boat. But I'd like to think it was because we were so much alike. Both hard-working, dedicated, shaped by rough childhoods. His last words to me were to take care of the ship, and to take care of Hoshi. Both of those things I would have done without being asked, but I'd promised none the less.

Speaking of Ensign Sato, I stopped by her quarters after breakfast, just to check in on her. She was working Beta shift today, and I hadn't seen her in the Mess yet, which worried me. You see, Hoshi's pregnant, almost five months along with Malcolm's baby. She'd only just found out the day before Malcolm died, so this has been rough for her. Turns out one of her friends had grabbed her some food so she could stay in and work on the UT in her quarters before shift.

I knew what the real reason was, and I called her on it. Her uniform has been getting tighter by the day, but she's been refusing to get a new one. She's currently straining the seams on the thing, and I think one deep breath would probably open a tear. I made the mistake of asking her when she was going to the Quartermaster. We argued, both of us a little on edge. Then she started yelling about Chef hiding the "good stuff", as she puts it.

So, she couldn't find the food she'd been craving when she'd gone on her last late night snack raid in the Galley. And to top it off, her uniform was so tight she was feeling self-conscious, but refused to get a new one. I never said pregnant women made sense, but in this case, she was making less sense than usual. Which meant that there was something else going on. Something besides the food and the uniform. But I knew I wouldn't get that story until she'd calmed down a bit, so I decided to just let her sulk for a while. I had other things that I needed to address.

I commed Lofton and MacKenzie to let them know I'd be gone a while, then I left her quarters and headed straight for the Quartermaster. Crewman Watson is an amiable guy, always willing to help, a fact I was grateful for at this point. I explained my dilemma, and he immediately set to work. He'd designed new Starfleet uniforms for the women—maternity uniforms—without needing to be asked. He'd designed MACO maternity wear also, and I'd seen a couple of my people were already wearing them, so I knew what to expect.

Instead of the flight suit style that the Fleeters usually wear, he'd designed pants with a wide elastic band around the waist and a jacket with the same stand-up collar as their usual uniform, with the same zipper up the front. The black shirts hadn't changed; he'd just added a bit more fabric around the middle. It was all very flattering, and I was grateful for the thought he'd put into them.

He handed off a set in Hoshi's size, along with the shirt and underwear—sized up apparently, since more than one pregnant woman had complained of their underwear fitting a bit too tight. I didn't want to know that, but Watson didn't seem to sense my discomfort. 

He probably thought the rumors were true: that Hoshi and I were together. We certainly spend enough time together, and I have to admit now that I have fallen hopelessly in love with her. But I'll get to that later. My day wasn't over yet.

I dropped Hoshi's new uniform off in her quarters—thankfully she'd already left for her bridge shift. I'd find her later and explain, but for now I didn't want to be dragging it around. I was already getting some weird looks.

My next stop was the Galley. It was a conversation I wasn't looking forward to, but one that self-preservation told me I had to have. And it wasn't something I wanted to burden the Captain with. He had enough things to worry about without having to handle this, too.

You see, Hoshi wasn't the only one complaining about Chef hiding the goods. I'd been hearing it from Cole and Money almost incessantly. And Ensign Cutler, Hoshi's closest friend, had mentioned something the other day in the Mess. So, it was either talk to Chef or risk the wrath of a woman with a craving to satisfy crossing my path at just the wrong moment.

I knew the second I crossed the threshold that this was going to be painful. Chef Gunter Hillenbrandt is German, in case you hadn't guessed by the name. He fancies himself a latter day Wolfgang Puck, that famous 20th century chef whose restaurants are still among the best on Earth. He likes to keep an orderly kitchen, and doesn't suffer interlopers well.

Well, I figured I'd rather face his wrath than Hoshi's, so in I went. He glared at me and asked—no, actually, demanded would be a better word—what I was doing in his Galley. The rest of the ship belongs to Captain Archer, but this place is his domain, I guess. Anyway, I told him I'd come to ask him to stop hiding the snacks from the ladies.

He grumbled about the midnight snack raids. It was sacrilege to violate his turf. And he also reminded me that he did leave snacks available in the dispensers in the Mess hall. What he leaves in the Mess hall is resequenced ham, turkey and egg salad sandwiches that taste a little like cardboard, but almost nothing like what they're supposed to. I patiently explained that pregnant women need lots of fresh, nutritional food, and while those sandwiches might be nutritional, they aren't fresh, and could barely be called food.

He didn't take that as an insult, which I took as progress. He, after all, didn't program the resequencers, so how could he be insulted. I still wasn't making any progress, however. He insisted that they stop breaking into the Galley. He complained that he'd changed the lock code multiple times, but that they'd always been able to break it. He even suggested that I might send someone from the Armory to beef up security in the Galley to prevent future break-ins. I didn't have the heart to tell him that Ensign Emily Hart—one of my Armory officers—was part of the pregnant cat burglar brigade.

I finally asked him if he had kids. He didn't, having never gotten married, but suddenly his face went pale. He had a sister with kids. She'd visited him in San Francisco, years ago when she was pregnant with her first child. He described in great detail how he'd found her in front of the refrigerator one night, pickles and ice cream her snacks of choice. I cringed at how disgusting that sounded. He said he'd tried to admonish his sister, and even threatened to lock the refrigerator, but had been lectured sternly—at two am—about the needs of a pregnant woman. 

Chef took on a contrite expression. Apparently he'd forgotten that event until now. He promised to set out some more fresh and nutritional snacks, a variety that might appeal to a pregnant woman with taste buds all over the place. I thanked him and left. Once outside, I leaned against the wall and breathed deeply. That had gone much better than I had a right to expect. But I was glad it was over with. At least Chef had been open to change. Most people wouldn't be. And Starfleet training simply didn't cover dealing with pregnant crew members, unless you're a doctor.

I grabbed a quick lunch in the Mess and then finally, I headed for the Armory. There was a stack of reports I'd been neglecting for far too long, and if I didn't finish them soon, the Captain would likely send a search party out for them. I smiled mirthlessly. My old CO had always told me that the worst thing about command was the paperwork, and it only seems to grow the higher up the promotion ladder you climb. He was right, unfortunately. 

I worked steadily for a few hours, until I couldn't take it anymore. I left the Armory and headed for the MACO training rooms, intending to take out my frustrations on a little target practice. When I got there, I found Lofton and Sergeant Kemper in a heated discussion about the target practice program. I waded in, hoping it was nothing serious. Turns out, it was nothing serious. They both had good ideas for how to improve the program, and I could see that implementing both solutions would have the net effect of increasing our accuracy on all weapons. They both grinned and set to work, as if the argument hadn't really happened. Weird.

So, as planned, I blew the hell out of the targets for the next hour. It felt nice to deal with something so simple. It also helped Lofton and Kemper refine the improvements they were planning to make. I was glad to be of help, though I wished they'd just skipped the argument and gone straight to the solution. It seemed that everyone was a little on edge these days. Which reminded me, I still had a Communications officer to deal with.

I stowed my weapon and headed for the Mess, hoping she'd be there. No such luck. I thought about checking her quarters, but I figured if she'd gone there, I'd probably already have heard about it, considering I'd left her new uniform on her bed. Her Bridge shift had already ended, so I knew she wouldn’t be there. Which left only one place.

Ever since Malcolm's death, she'd taken to spending time in the Forward Observation Lounge. It was her own private sanctuary; someplace she could go to just sit and be. That's where I found her. 

I walked in and sat down on the couch beside her, and to my surprise she leaned into me. I put my arm around her shoulders and she snuggled into my side as I asked her if she was ready to tell me what was really wrong. I wasn't prepared for what she said.

She admitted to me that she was scared. Scared that she was forgetting Malcolm. I was in shock. I couldn't imagine why she'd think that she could ever forget him. Then it hit me. 

We'd been getting closer all these months, spending time together. I'd gone with her to every appointment with Doctor Phlox, taken care of her when she couldn't take care of herself after we lost Malcolm. I'd fallen in love with her quickly, and I could understand why. But it never occurred to me that she might fall in love with me.

You see, Malcolm and I are a lot alike, as I've said. We have similar value systems, similar dedication to duty. I have to admit I'm a lot less rigid and repressed than he was, but we're both by-the-book types. So, the fact that I found Hoshi appealing didn't surprise me. She's full of life, eager to learn, braver than some MACOs I'd met; dynamite in a compact package. Malcolm and I being so similar, it would figure we'd be attracted to the same girl.

But it never occurred to me that, because I'm so much like Malcolm, that she might find me appealing. And I could see where that might be a problem for her. It might feel like a betrayal of her love for Malcolm. I didn't want that, didn't want her to feel guilty or afraid.

So, I told her that she'd never forget him, because she has a part of him with her always. That little baby they created out of their great love for each other will always remind her of him. And all of us—not just me, but everyone on the crew who knew and loved Malcolm—would be telling this child stories about him for years to come. That child would know as much about its father as it could, despite the fact that it would never get to meet him.

But I also told her that it wasn't a betrayal to want to be close to someone again; to crave that closeness to another human being, and to want to love and be loved. All she needed to do was make room in her heart for someone else. She didn’t need to give up Malcolm in order to love someone else. My mother did it, years ago. She got married six months after my father died. I was happy for her, because she was happier with someone. It just happened to be my dad's best friend, his aide and the man who'd helped us deal with Dad's death, but he was a good man, so I could hardly object.

I also told her that I thought Malcolm wouldn't want her to pine away for him. He'd have wanted her to move on with her life, both for her sake and for the baby's. 

And then I did something I never thought I'd do: I told her I was in love with her. Which is when she admitted that she'd fallen in love with me, too. You could have knocked me over with a feather. 

I pulled her close and just held her for the longest time. There really wasn't anything else to say. I'd already stepped in and taken on the role of her husband in every way except one. I didn't know if I'd be stepping into a physical relationship with her now, but it seemed we'd crossed the final barrier.

But instead of belaboring the point, because there really wasn't much more I could add, I suggested that we go get something to eat. 

The Mess was nearly empty by the time we arrived. Dinner had been over for a while, and it appeared Chef had already cleaned up. So, I told her to sit down and wait for me, and I'd see what I could dig up from the Galley. She gave me a look that clearly said she thought I was crazy, but with my newfound understanding with Chef, I figured I had nothing to lose. 

To my surprise, I was welcomed into the Galley with open arms. When I explained my predicament, Chef tutted about Hoshi waiting so long to eat, and promised us a nice dinner. I guess I'm now on his privileged list, because he made us a rather tasty chicken dinner—at least I think it was chicken—with all the trimmings. Hoshi ate everything on her plate, and pronounced herself completely satisfied. I was more grateful than he will ever know.

We headed back to her quarters, and as we walked in, I suddenly realized that I'd left her new uniform on the bed, and I hadn't mentioned it at all. That seemed like such a long time ago. She saw it, of course, and picked it up to examine it. I stood stiffly near the door, keeping my exit strategy firmly in mind, in case this went badly. But all she did was turn around and smile at me, thanking me for taking such good care of her.

Then, she kissed me. And not one of those innocent pecks on the cheek she'd been bestowing on me almost since the beginning. No, this was a full-on-the-mouth, soul-searching, blood-pressure-raising kiss. When we finally broke apart, I was gasping for breath, but she just had a satisfied smile on her face, like she'd known all along what that would do to me.

She also had that come hither look in her eyes. I asked her if she was really ready for that. I didn't want her to do anything she wasn't ready for. Her only answer was to slip out of her uniform. Again, you could have knocked me over with a feather.

So, we made love for the first time tonight. It was everything I'd hoped it would be. She is, in a word, beautiful. Even swollen with another man's child, she took my breath away. I hate that the only reason we're together is because Malcolm is dead, but I'm grateful beyond words that she's willing to trust herself to me. 

As we lay cuddled up together—and I'm password locking this entry so no one ever finds out I do that—we talked about the baby. It's a girl; Hoshi stopped by Sickbay to ask Phlox because she hadn't asked before. I hope she looks just like Hoshi. We've even settled on a name: Keiko Madeline Reed. Wherever Malcolm is, I hope he approves.

So, I'm sitting here at three in the morning, typing this entry out because I don't want to wake Hoshi. She's sleeping peacefully, which I know is something she's struggled with. I'm hoping just my presence will have a calming effect on her. I love her too much to see her in pain. 

I'm hoping tomorrow will be an easier day, for all of us, although I don't hold out much hope of that. Ever since we entered the Expanse, each day seems crazier than the last. Maybe I should write a book. Trouble is nobody would believe it wasn't fiction. 

~Finis


End file.
